


Nature Versus Nurture

by ashitanoyuki



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Animal Abuse, Asexual Character, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Before the show, College graduate Sherlock, Dead animals, Kidnapping, Lab rat, Misuse of PHD, Misuse of Psychology, My apologies to all Psychologists, Nature, Nature V Nurture, Nature Versus Nurture, Other, Projection, Psychological Studies, Psychological Torture, Psychology, Sexual Assault, Sherlock in his 20's, Sherlock is asexual, Sleep Deprivation, Sociopath, Sociopathy, Starvation, Studies, Test subject, Torture, Young Sherlock, animal cruelty, nurture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashitanoyuki/pseuds/ashitanoyuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes had looked forward to graduating and starting his own life, where he could amuse himself without playing to the rules of society. Unfortunately, he lacks a direction in life. For lack of anything better to do, he responds to an advertisement asking for participants in a psychological study.</p>
<p>Unfortunately for him, the psychologist conducting the study is not so much interested in gathering data as he is in molding the data to fit his hypothesis--and he is not content with simply falsifying his results. At the mercy of an obsessed madman, Sherlock finds himself molding his behavior to fit his captor's whims, fighting to stay alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this fic was not supposed to ever be written, but my darling sister T and my best friend Sainttosin pushed me to write it down. So, if this is awful, I'm absolving myself of all blame and pushing it on them. That said, I have done my best thus far to keep it from being awful, and hopefully I have succeeded!
> 
> This fic is yet another example of "Ashitanoyuki doesn't know how to write happy things". Rating may go from mature to explicit, depending on how later chapters go. I don't expect to update it terribly regularly, but if I go a few weeks without updating, feel free to prod me. I have no plans to abandon this work, I'm just lazy.
> 
> I am not terribly confident in my ability to write Sherlock, so if you have any advice, please, I beg of you, let me know! Few people improve without criticism, and I love receiving it.

“Nothing here,” the man whispered, running his index finger down a page of notes. “Nothing—nothing!” He slammed the folder shut and pounded its leather surface with a closed fist. “Why is there never any connection? There has to be!” Snarling, he picked up the folder and hurled it across the room, wrinkled pages spilling out the sides as it hit the polished wooden wall of his study and fell pathetically to the floor. The man paid it no mind; he rose from his overstuffed chair and stalked towards the filing cabinet in the corner, digging through the sparse collection of files. “There’s a connection. There has to be,” he muttered, wrenching folders out seemingly at random and throwing them haphazardly in the direction of his desk. “Not this one, not this one—damnit, there has to be something. Anything! If I can just—“

 

It was clear that he would find nothing. With a groan that bordered on a wail, he sank to the floor, pounding a fist childishly in the worn carpet. It could do with a cleaning; indeed, the entire office was a mess of tracked in dirt and old coffee stains, its air reeking of neglect. The man buried his face in his hands, desperation seeming to radiate from his body. “Why?” he whispered finally, clutching at his hair and pulling at it, seemingly oblivious to his actions. “I know there’s a connection. I know it! My life’s work—” He groaned again, slumping forward until he was nearly prostrate on the floor.

 

“I have to do it,” he muttered, his words slurring together slightly. “My life’s work, my entire reason for living, if I can’t find the right connection, it was all for nothing. Look at them, all those people who said I couldn’t do it!” He laughed, but there was no mirth in the noise. “I’ll show them they were wrong. They are wrong! We can understand this, it’s all so simple—it just has to be proven!” He slammed his fist against the filing cabinet, adding yet another dent to the myriad that adorned its surface. The cabinet creaked in protest, but the hardy thing would have never survived its owner if it could not handle a few blows now and again.

 

Trembling, the man rose and made his way back to his desk, trembling and stumbling over loose papers and cracked leather folders. With a sigh, he sank into his chair and leaned forward, clearing the debris from off of his keyboard. The old desktop computer whined and whirred as he turned it on, bypassing the warnings that it had been improperly shut down the last time he had used it. “No funding, no grants, not even a good word for my name—damn it all, I’m going to have to rely on volunteers,” he growled, pulling up his word processor and hammering away at the keyboard. “I’ll show them. I don’t care how. I’ll prove it—they’ll never say it can’t be done. I can prove it! Even if they don’t give me a chance!”

 

He sat in silence for a few moments, and then returned to his writing. When he had finished, he read it over a few times, making edits where they were needed until he had produced a perfectly innocuous piece of writing. He rubbed a hand over his bloodshot eyes and reached through the mess of papers, digging through them until he saw the edge of his most recent bank statement. He scanned the paper briefly, checking the balance on his main account. It was low, far lower than he would have liked. He was going to have to sell the house if he could not produce publishable results in enough time—and he couldn’t stand that. The house was all he had left of his own, the only thing that was his and his alone, not to be shared or fretted over or even known of by friend or family or wife.

 

Still, there was enough money in his bank account to place an advertisement in the local newspaper. He had done this often enough that he had the appropriate email address memorized. With a growl, he pulled up his email account and typed away furiously, pasting the document he had just finished into the body of the email, and attaching it just in case—he could afford to have nothing left to chance here. His livelihood, his reputation—everything he had was on the line with this. He could not afford to fail, not now.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Three months after graduating from college and moving to London, Sherlock already had his routine down. Wake up in the morning, run down to the shop on the corner to pick up a bagel, coffee, and the newspaper; eat breakfast, have a smoke, briefly check his investments, read the newspaper and scan for anything interesting—not that there was ever anything interesting; the rest of the day was spent in vain attempts to amuse himself. It was all so dull, so ordinary—nothing that he would have ever imagined himself doing in his plans for his life. His internship with the local psychiatrist’s office had ended several weeks ago, and the stimulation he had hoped he would find there had not been forthcoming. People were so petty, with their tiny concerns and their small minds, never anything new and interesting. They were all the same, and the several months he had spent as an intern had only served to destroy any thoughts he had had about actually going into the psychiatric field. In the end, he had been left with a graduate degree in psychology that he had no interest in using, and what looked like a seemingly endless life of boredom and monotony.

 

It was with reluctance that he pulled himself out of bed and made his way to the shop. The cashier recognized him coming in and already had his cigarettes in her hand by the time he reached the cash register, coffee in hand, bagel and newspaper tucked under his arm. She no longer bothered asking him for his ID; she knew full well that he was of age, the number of times he came into the store. With a polite smile and a quick thank you, Sherlock was out of the shop and back onto the street in a span of only a few minutes. Well, he supposed he had nothing better to do than eat his breakfast and thumb his way through the paper yet again. How perfectly dull.

 

Some scandal involving a politician, a few sports players suspended for their conduct—the newspaper was full of uninteresting stories, scrounged up to fill space and keep the news industry afloat. Sherlock paused to read a short piece about a girl found drowned in her bathtub by her parents, but it was cut and dry, already solved, and lacking in the sorts of details that would actually make for an interesting story. Within half an hour he had read all the news of the day, and was onto the obituary section. He lit a cigarette, skimming through the obituaries to see if there was anything of note, but nothing interesting popped up. He sighed and closed the page, flipping it over to look at the advertisements in the back. One or two times he had seen ads of interest, but for the most part they were all the same—used cars for sale, missing cats, job offers.

 

The only thing of note today was an advertisement placed for volunteers in a psychological study. Accepting people of all backgrounds—men and women; people of any racial, socioeconomic, and educational backgrounds would be considered. There was no mention of the point of the study, only that hours were flexible and the person who had placed the ad was willing to accept anyone who could make time for it. No doubt it was a grad student who realized that he or she was late in forming a thesis. Sherlock skimmed it over a few times, before throwing the paper down with a sigh. It did not seem like it would be terribly interesting, but nothing else in his life was—maybe this study would surprise him.

 

In any case, he supposed may as well see what it was all about. It was not as if he had anything better to do.

 

 


	2. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets with the psychologist running the study. Something seems off about the man, but Sherlock cannot place his finger on what exactly makes him uneasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticisms welcome!

The man on the other end of the phone had seemed excited, eager to meet with Sherlock at any time he had available. Sherlock was surprised to note that the man did not seem like a graduate student; from what he had said, he had done research before, although he had no publications of note. A failed psychologist, then, someone who dabbled in research but was entirely incompetent at his job. It was not with high hopes that Sherlock approached the stately brick building that the man had listed in his ad. Clearly, if he was running studies at his home, he was either unemployed or so menial in position that he could not run this study in his workplace. A cursory search on the man’s name had come up with a few mentions of help in research with professors in college, but apart from his name on studies published by professors, it seemed he was telling the truth about having yet to publish anything on his own—at least, nothing of enough note that the local library kept it in its archives. However, his name checked out that he was a real person and a student of psychology, rather than simply some dabbler who fancied himself a psychologist, so Sherlock supposed that he was not entirely without credibility.

 

The door opened almost before he could knock, and Sherlock found himself looking into the eyes of a disheveled man, his suit rumpled as though he had been wearing it for several days straight, his hair a greasy mess that suggested it had been some time since he had last showered. His bloodshot brown eyes were almost too steady for his fidgety body, at odds with his chewed fingernails and trembling hands. “Sherlock Holmes, is it?” he asked, his voice high and breathy. “Doctor Bridge, pleased to make your acquaintance. Come in, come in!” he said, voice fast and almost slurred, though there was no trace of alcohol on his breath. He stepped aside, revealing a dark hall in need of some serious cleaning. Sherlock made the mental note to keep his shoes on; he would be washing his socks for days if he stepped foot on that floor in them.

 

Doctor Bridge led the way from the hall into the living room. “Absolutely marvelous that you could come this soon, just wonderful Sherlock. Sit, sit!” he babbled, nearly pushing Sherlock into the couch. “Tea? Coffee? Would you like any refreshments?” he asked, standing nervously by the couch, hovering annoyingly close to Sherlock.

 

“No,” Sherlock responded, appraising his surroundings. He supposed he could not say this man was completely non-intellectual—unless he had a penchant for buying well-read first editions of books and half-disintegrated classics. The entire room was lined with bookshelves, lacking a television and other furnishings common to most living rooms. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, meeting his eyes.

 

“Oh—well, let me open a window,” Doctor Bridge said after a short pause. He scurried over to the window, flinging back dusty curtains and sliding the window open as far as it would go. “I don’t have an ashtray—I’ll just run find you a cup, or something.”

 

“Very good,” Sherlock said, settling back into the couch. A very strange man indeed—Sherlock was not certain how he could afford this house and all those books with his lack of professional accomplishments. Perhaps he came from money, or did have a practice somewhere? No, he could not have a practice—that would have come up in his search on the man’s name. Fidgety, as though he was not terribly confident, or perhaps nervous, but surprisingly direct in his actions and gaze, as though he wished to be taken seriously—very strange overall. Sherlock was having difficulty in placing the man. Perhaps if he were better at reading people, a skill he had been trying to master with limited success ever since he had realized that other people were terribly boring in their surface level interactions, he would be able to better form an idea of who Doctor Bridge was, and what he was even attempting to accomplish in this study.

 

He barely glanced up as the doctor hurried back into the room, a chipped mug with deeply ingrained coffee stains clutched in his hand. “There you are—use this,” he said, stuffing the mug into Sherlock’s hand and scuttling around the coffee table, settling down in an armchair he had clearly pulled around to face the couch for this purpose alone. “Now, why don’t you tell me about yourself.”

 

Sherlock paused to pull out his pack of cigarettes, light one, and take a drag. “Sherlock Holmes, twenty-two years old, PhD in psychology,” he said, meeting Doctor Bridge’s eyes. “Before we go any further, what is your study about? I would hate to get involved in something without knowing what it is.”

 

“Oh—of course!” Doctor Bridge laughed, his voice slightly grating. He fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his hands several times before replying. “I am looking for patterns in behavior common to humanity in general, regardless of any of our differentiating characteristics. In essence, I am interested in the whole idea of nature versus nurture. You’re a psychology student, so I suppose I do not need to explain that concept to you.”

 

“Clearly,” Sherlock agreed, tapping his cigarette ash into the coffee mug.

 

“Well, I am interested in finding out about the lives of my subjects up to this point—how they were raised, their life’s circumstances, that sort of thing. Then I wish to know about their general behavior, their beliefs, their morals, what sorts of things they find appropriate, and how they live their lives versus how they would like to live their lives. Anything that appears constant across race, culture, class, gender, and any other category we have come up with as a people—I would think that this sort of thing can be considered a natural part of humanity. Things that seem to fit along one category of people but not others can be considered fodder for study into nurture, and things that seem to be singular to individuals would need further examination to determine whether they are the result of nature or nurture.”

 

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. Of course—he had gotten his hopes too high in thinking that there was even a chance that this study would be interesting. “That seems rather broad and poorly designed,” he said frankly, busying himself with his cigarette. “You could find hundreds of other studies that deal with the exact same concept, but are better designed and have a more focused point to them.”

 

For some reason, that seemed to make Doctor Bridge happy; he threw his head back and half roared with laughter. “Well, that’s very frank of you Mr. Holmes! Thank you,” he said when he had regained enough control of himself to speak. “It’s true, this study is so much in the preliminary that it lacks focus. I can’t very well determine the focus of the study without data, now can I?”

 

“Isn’t that generally the point of studies?” Sherlock asked, mildly surprised by the doctor’s reaction. “You’re leaving a lot open to bias by narrowing the focus only after you have collected the data you need. Not a terribly efficient way to do anything more than prove a point. This is the sort of study designed by someone trying to prove a point he already has in mind.” There was no need to qualify that, Sherlock thought. There was no other reason to run a study so broad and poorly constructed; this was the study of a man with an agenda, desperate to get something, anything, out in the professional world. It was a pity that he had already wasted so much of his time. With a sigh, Sherlock pocketed his cigarettes and tapped out his cigarette on the edge of the coffee cup. “Thank you for your time, but I am afraid that I am not interested.”

 

“Wait, wait!” For the first time, Doctor Bridge seemed entirely uncomfortable, almost desperate, a good several notches above his previous state of nervousness. “Just—just give me a few sessions worth of time. You said on the phone that any time works for you because you have little going on in your personal life. Does it really hurt to stay for a few sessions, just for some preliminary data gathering?”

 

“I do not want my name attached to such a fraudulent study,” Sherlock said, rising from the couch. “I would rather not tarnish my own name, and my own chances of getting a job in the field, simply because you are desperate to publish something.”

 

“I’ll be leaving my subjects unnamed, of course! Anonymity and that sort of thing, it’s very important in this sort of study. Your name will be completely unattached to my work, don’t worry!” Doctor Bridge rose from the chair, nearly knocking the coffee table over in the process, and moved as though to block the entryway to the living room. “Just stay for a couple of sessions, and if you’re still against it, I will not ask you to come back.”

 

Sherlock paused. The man looked desperate; he must have not had many calls back apart from Sherlock’s own, if he was so frantic to keep Sherlock in the study that he would actually try to block him in. Something was off about it. Still, if his name would be kept out of the study… “Very well. I have little else to do. Keep my name out of the study, and if you fix it up so that it’s something reasonable within the first couple sessions, I’ll stay on. If you still seem to be seeking to fit some agenda after that point, then I’m not involving myself in it anymore. Is that clear?”

 

“Very.” Doctor Bridge seemed to relax a little; he moved from the doorframe and stood behind his chair. “You know,” he said after a short pause, “that reaction actually tells me a fair amount about you, Sherlock.”

 

“Oh?” Sherlock asked dispassionately, sitting back down on the couch. “Do tell.”

 

Doctor Bridge smiled, examining Sherlock with his unnervingly steady eyes. “You fancy yourself a moral person, or at least an ethical one, when it comes to things that interest you. However, that’s all for show; you’re only ethical when someone is looking. A part of you feels guilty about that and wants to compensate for it by forcing yourself to act ethical even when you don’t need to, hence your qualifier that if I do not shape up my study, you will leave. You value yourself over other people, even over proper knowledge and procedure, which is why you will stay in this study even though you think that my set-up is improper. You’re bored, and you’ll do anything, even violate your own ethical code, in order to stave off the boredom.”

 

Sherlock had not taken his eyes off the other man’s throughout the entire little speech. “Nice attempt at analysis, doctor,” he said, giving a small smile. “However, I’m afraid that you’re wrong about me. I keep to an ethical code not because I worry what other people will think of me, but because I think it would be a travesty to pollute the intellectual world with false conclusions. I do wish to stave off my boredom, but I was not making an empty threat; if you do not shape up your study, I will not participate in it. It’s clear that you are working on this independently. You have no funding, no support, no promised publishers, so you need to throw out a really big fish in order to assure that you get published. Stop focusing on being published, start focusing on learning, and I will gladly stay on, but if you don’t, I am not lying about ending my association with you. Are we clear?”

 

“Very much so,” Doctor Bridge said, a strange smile playing about his lips. He moved from behind the chair and sat into it, leaning forward and bracing his clasped hands on the rickety coffee table. “Now then, since you are staying on for the moment, why do you not start by telling me about yourself? Not those details about your name and your age; I need to know about you, and who you are.”


	3. Patterns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attends another session with Doctor Bridge, and ends up with a nasty surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Critiques and comments welcome.

Only three respondents. Three was not enough for a study, and he knew it. The man sighed and rubbed his eyes, leaning his head down to rest it on his desk. Three respondents, and a study that he had no hope of publishing. Sherlock Holmes was right; it was a poorly designed study, but it had never been his intention of going forth with it anyways. He was just lucky that the cocky young man had not picked up on his intentions; he was clearly very bright, to have a PhD at 22. But he was self-absorbed and clearly not accustomed to dealing with other people.

 

Sherlock Holmes. Bright to a fault, easily bored, but ethical. It was the other man’s sense of ethics that made him think that he did not fit the bill entirely for sociopathy—but if he could figure out what made him the way he was, then Sherlock might be a start to proving that he was right. The man was clearly a loner; he rarely mentioned other people, bringing up his family only in passing, and mostly in reference to his childhood; only one or two mentions of peers had slipped into their conversation. Isolated, a natural loner, new to London and without connections in the area—oh, it was a dream case. Not quite in the realm of sociopathy, but so close, that if he was correct—and of course he was, he knew it—it would take only a light push to ensure that the man fit that categorization for the rest of his life.

 

Nature versus nurture; it was the age old debate, a debate that had gripped him ever since it was first brought up in his high school psychology class. Let his classmates blither on about combinations of the two, about humans having certain biological chemistry that made them do some things but not others, that made some people some way when others were a different way. It was so variable, and so clearly wrong! From the first time the debate had been brought up, he had known, simply _known,_ that human behavior was the product of their environment. It was all so clear to him; it was the answer to every ethnic struggle and racial disparity, to why women acted one way and men acted another—it explained all the exceptions to the rule. It was all about being raised and socialized, and people who escaped it were the ones who proved it. And the people who were truly different, truly wrong—they were the ones who had been shafted by their environment. Lack of emotion, lack of regard for others—it was all the fault of a poor environment and experiences, and all he needed to do was prove he was right!

 

Sherlock Holmes was the key. All it would take was a little push in one direction or the other, and he would have his perfect case study. Sherlock Holmes, the slightly odd but harmless loner, the man who kept to himself but had a strong sense of ethics, turned into Sherlock Holmes, the emotionless monster, the man who would do anything for himself and nothing that was not for himself. It would be perfect. He could prove it, and clearly he was meant to prove it. Why else would such a perfect specimen have simply fallen into his lap? No, it was a sign, a gift, proof that he was right, that his research was meant to succeed, that he was meant to go ahead with his research and prove once and for all that he was correct, that he had known the answer all along.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

“Boring,” he muttered, flipping through the newspaper. “Boring. Boring. Is that—no. Boring.” Sherlock sighed and closed the paper, tossing it in the general direction of the recycling bin. It fell a good ten feet short, and he could not bring himself to get up and actually put it in the bin. He would get to it later, he supposed. His fingers itched to pick up his violin, but he did not wish to start associating the instrument with monotony. He had his third interview with Doctor Bridge later that day, but there was nothing to do in the meantime, and if things continued as they had been, the interview itself would hardly be a break from the dullness of everyday life.

 

With a sigh, Sherlock picked up a book from the haphazardly stacked pile near his bed. He had read them all at least seven times, but he felt no desire to get up and make his way to the library, and he had probably read anything interesting that the library stocked in any case. Listlessly, he thumbed through the tome, scanning the pages but not taking in any of the words. He knew them all by heart anyways. Perhaps it was time to take up another hobby. Woodworking, or painting, perhaps. Or he could just run away and join the circus as a juggler, for all the appeal any of those sorts of things held for him.

 

Sherlock wallowed in his self-pitying boredom for another hour or so before he tired of feeling sorry for himself. Even that was boring. He tossed the book back onto its pile and rose, stretching his long legs, savoring the feeling of kinks popping in his spine. A walk might clear his head, or at least give him something useful to do. He could practice his little hobby of attempting to figure people out from a glance. He had been getting better at it the past few weeks, for lack of anything better to do. He was fairly certain he could profile a person’s general profession at a glance, though he would need more study to determine if he was right, or if he was simply getting cocky. And profession was only one aspect of a person; if he ever wanted to be what he could consider “good” at this, he would need much more practice. It was not perfect in staving off boredom, but it was a far cry better than re-reading books he had memorized or sitting around feeling sorry for himself.

 

He wandered in the general direction of Doctor Bridge’s house, taking in as much of his surroundings as he could at a glance. His mental map of London was nearly perfect now, but every now and then there was a surprise, something that he could not afford to have if he wanted to claim that he knew the city perfectly. There were still shops that he could not name without seeing them or neighborhoods that he would get lost in if he was dropped off in them, and that was a reality that he refused to accept. Slightly after general lunch hours, the streets were not as full as they could have been, but still he witnessed wave after wave of humanity bustling about from shops to cars, houses to taxis, businesses to restaurants. What was in common between people who took cars versus public transport? Who came out of what buildings, and why? How could one determine what they did at a glance? Sherlock observed, filing away every detail he could catch in his brain for later—for what reason, he still was not sure, but it was fascinating. Maybe he could find a way to make a life out of this—it was a dream, an ideal, but it was more interesting than any conventional life, and certainly more interesting than dealing with people directly.

 

It was with great reluctance that Sherlock pulled himself away from his people watching to finish the trek to Doctor Bridge’s house. Perhaps if the man ever had anything interesting to say or ask it would not have been such an annoyance, but Sherlock was quickly losing any drive he had ever had to continue going along to these ask sessions. It was clear that the man was incompetent as a researcher, far too interested in the results than in the process.

The doctor was fidgety as normal when he opened the door. “Sherlock, excellent! Come in, you know where the living room is by now.”

 

Sherlock nodded curtly and made his way to the living room. The window was shut today—unusual, considering the stained coffee cup was set out in front of the couch, ready for use as an ashtray. Doctor Bridge followed him in not a moment later, a glass of water in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “I know you always say not to bother with refreshments, but I remember saying you like coffee with sugar,” he said with a smile, pushing it in Sherlock’s direction. “I do hope I made it correctly to your tastes.”

 

Sherlock nodded, ignoring the coffee for the time being. Doctor Bridge’s smile faltered briefly; he then shook himself and looked at Sherlock again, grin firmly in place. “Well! I do not have a list of questions prepared today, but I think we have well covered your childhood and adolescence, and your life as it is today. So now, instead of asking about practical things, I think I’d like to ask about your thoughts on morality and other such matters. As you have said before, you consider yourself a fairly ethical person.”

 

“Correct,” Sherlock said calmly, lighting a cigarette. “I see no point in being otherwise.” He paused, and took a sip of the coffee.

 

“Now, do tell me—do you have any exceptions to this rule? Any instances you can think of where ethics can be thrown by the wayside in order to get things done?”

 

Sherlock paused to think for a moment. “That depends on your definition of ethics,” he answered finally, taking another swig of coffee. Goodness it tasted awful. He wondered if the man’s coffee maker was broken, or if his water supply was contaminated.

 

“How would you define ethics?” Doctor Bridge asked, staring intently at Sherlock. His stare, always steady, seemed more focused than normal. Interesting. Sherlock did not think that the questions were more meaningful than the ones from the other interviews.

 

“Hmmm. I suppose ethics would be doing things with the intent to not deceive, attempting to help where possible and hurt the fewest people you can.” That was not a sufficient answer, and he knew it, but for some reason he was having trouble coming up with anything else to say.

 

“So do you think it is acceptable, even ethical, to hurt people in certain circumstances?” That stare, he was still giving him that unsettling stare.

 

“I—yes,” Sherlock said. He jumped as the ash from his cigarette fell onto his pants—he had nearly forgotten he was holding it. “Damn!” he hissed, fumbling as much of the ash as he could into his hand and brushing it into the coffee mug. “Sorry.” He took a hasty drag from his cigarette—maybe the nicotine would clear his mind. “If it’s for the greater good—I mean, if it’s protecting other people, directly or indirectly, then yes. Or if a person has committed certain crimes, murder or something along those lines, then they should be harshly punished. I would consider that ethical, yes.” Dear god, when had he become so ineloquent?

 

Doctor Bridge spent a few minutes taking notes—Sherlock wondered how he could have so much to write about that one answer. Annoyance began to build as the minutes ticked on and Doctor Bridge did not look up. He was starting to feel funny, slightly ill, and the sooner he got back to his flat, the better. Just as he was about to open his mouth and demand that the doctor move on, the man set his clipboard down and looked quizzically at him again.

 

“Are you all right, Sherlock?” he asked politely, scanning his face. “You’re looking a little bit off.”

 

“Forgive me, I must be coming down with something,” Sherlock answered as politely as he could. If the old fool had not taken so long writing down notes… “I think we should cut this short though. If we could reschedule—”

 

“What, and you walk home like this? I would not even trust you to catch a cab.” Doctor Bridge briskly picked up his clipboard. “Lie down and see if it passes. I’ll be back in just a moment.”

 

That made Sherlock uneasy, but he also noticed a curious inability to move properly. He struggled to get a handle on the situation—this did not feel like ordinary sickness. It had set on far more quickly than any illness he had ever contracted, and try as he might, he could not think of any disease or virus that had any of the symptoms he was experiencing. He felt less as though he were ill and more as if he had been drugged—

 

Drugged. It was a bolt of realization in his befuddled mind. He had been drugged, and he had to get out of the house before Doctor Bridge came back. Sherlock summoned up all of his willpower and dragged himself off the couch. The room swayed around him as he stumbled forward. His coat caught on the coffee table; he pulled at it and watched in shock as the rickety coffee table gave out, spilling the drinks and the makeshift ashtray onto the floor with a clatter. It was unlikely that Doctor Bridge had missed the sound; he had to hurry if he wanted to make it out before the doctor came back. He placed a hand on the doorframe and pushed himself out into the hall, colliding with the doctor almost instantly. Doctor Bridge caught him before he fell, his look of concern gone.

 

“What did you give me?” Sherlock asked, his voice slurring ridiculously. He sounded drunk, he guessed, though he had never gotten entirely drunk in his life. A bit tipsy, sure, but—no, damn, there went his thoughts again. He had to stay focused!

 

“Rohypnol,” Doctor Bridge answered calmly. He wasn’t trembling anymore, though it could be that Sherlock’s vision was impacted by the drug. “It was necessary. I doubt you would agree to my requirements—but your agreement isn’t important right now. I must say, you’ve been very difficult to catch, Sherlock Holmes. Always so alert, so aware, to distrustful of everyone around you.”

 

Sherlock struggled to find a response, but Doctor Bridge seemed to be done talking. He slipped his arm under Sherlock’s and hauled him to a more upright position. “Come along, there’s a good boy,” he said patronizingly, dragging Sherlock down the hall to a padlocked door. “Where’s the damn key,” he cursed, fumbling briefly around in his pockets before he produced a tiny key and unlocked the door. He pulled it open to reveal a set of stairs that led to another locked door. “Can’t be too careful, I’m afraid. Fortunately, this is one of the perks of coming from a family with money—special rooms of all sorts built into the house.”

 

So it was family money that was keeping this man afloat. Sherlock wanted to speak, to say that he knew it had to have been wealth rather than salary that funded this man’s life, but the words he wanted to use refused to come to mind. Instead, he settled for refusing to move his body, forcing the doctor to half drag, half carry him down the stairs. There was a padlock on the inside of the door; the doctor unceremoniously dumped Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs and walked up to secure it. He repeated this ritual with the other door, and dragged Sherlock into the pitch-black room on the other side.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is locked away to wait for the effects of the drug to wear off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry that I took so long to update. The next chapter will go up within a few days, I promise!

When Sherlock had thought that he might like something to cure his boredom, this was far from what he had had in mind.

 

Doctor Bridge flicked on the light to reveal a room that resembled a makeshift laboratory. Some of the equipment seemed to be materials purchased for scientific reasons; others, like the large mahogany table in the middle of the room, thrown in there haphazardly to serve some sort of purpose that Sherlock did not want to think about. “Are you the next Seligman, then?” he asked, having nothing wittier to say. Somehow he did not think he could bargain or intimidate his way out of this situation.

 

Doctor Bridge smiled, a truly happy smile that did not fit the situation in the slightest. “Not quite. My research is greater than his ever was—than any research before me. You’re a very lucky man, Sherlock Holmes. You get to take part in the greatest research ever done.”

 

“I doubt that,” Sherlock slurred, casting around for a better retort and coming up empty.

 

The doctor ignored him. “The world will thank me, in the end,” he muttered, dragging Sherlock towards a large object covered with a sheet. “They’ll see. You get to help me prove myself. There’s a reason you, of all people, responded to my ad. The world wants me to succeed.” He drew back the sheet, revealing a large cage—the dog crate for a mastiff, perhaps, bolted to the floor, adorned with padlocks at every possible junction. Doctor Bridge unlocked the one holding the door in place and pushed Sherlock down, towards the cage. “Go on now, in you go,” he urged, shoving at him. When Sherlock attempted to push back, he growled and half threw him in the cage. “You have a higher purpose, Sherlock!” he shouted at the dazed man. “You’re the subject of the greatest research ever done! Now cooperate with me!”

 

“Go to hell,” Sherlock growled, pushing feebly at the door of the cage, his strength still receding. How long did Rohypnol last? He wished he could remember.”

 

Doctor Bridge grinned again, and this time the smile was not so much unnerving as frightening. “Good,” he crooned, reaching through the bars and patting Sherlock’s foot. He did not seem to mind when Sherlock jerked his leg away from the offending hand. “That’s it. Tap into that rage, that contempt. I’d love to stay and work with you, but unfortunately,” he sighed, checking his watch pointedly, “I have another interview in an hour, and I have to clean up the living room that you so rudely destroyed. Don’t worry—this subject isn’t special in the slightest. You’re the only one who gets to take part in the true experiment.” With those parting words, he turned and walked away, turning out the light as he left and leaving Sherlock in darkness. There was the sound of him fumbling with the padlock outside the door, and then his footsteps moved away, until finally there was silence.

 

It seemed to take an age for the drug to wear off, although in his rational mind, Sherlock knew that it was only a few hours. He knew that at some point he started screaming, alternately roaring his rage and yelling for help, but he must have been completely off on his time frame, or Bridge had found a way to convince his next participant that the screams were of no consequence. The first scenario was more likely; his sense of time was off, anyways. Eventually, throat raw and sore, Sherlock ceased his yells—better to save his strength. He struggled to get his breathing under control, to think, to figure a way out of his situation. When his head finally seemed to have cleared, he tested the locks, the bars, anything to find a weak point. There was none, as he had expected, but he was none the worse for trying. Shakily, he tried to take stock of his current situation.

 

He had been drugged, locked away in a cage in the basement of a man who seemed to have designed a study precisely for this purpose. All those questions about his life and ethics—those had just been a front. He wished he could remember clearly what had happened, but his memory of the exact details of the kidnapping was fuzzy, a result of the drug, no doubt. If he remembered correctly, and he was certain he did, Rohypnol was one of those drugs that impaired the memory—Bridge had likely chosen it for precisely that reason. The main question to which he could not pinpoint an answer was why on earth Bridge was doing this, and why he had chosen Sherlock of all people.

 

Bridge had left the sheet off of the cage, but the room was so dark, Sherlock could not examine his surroundings properly. Metal cage with a solid floor covered in locks—he remembered seeing a table, but that was all of note that he could pull up from his blurry recollection of the kidnapping. He could only come up with one thing he could know for certain: Bridge was a dangerous man. He would have to play along, try to earn the man’s trust, or at least try to keep him from snapping. Never before had Sherlock Holmes feared for his life, but never before had he been in a situation where he was at the mercy of an apparent psychopath. He searched his pockets—a handful of change, half a pack of cigarettes, lighter—nothing that could help him out of his situation. There was no way that his lighter was strong enough to melt through the bars even of this cage, and if he could, what then? He was still trapped, stuck in a room behind two doors padlocked from the outside. Sherlock knew his strength well enough to know that he could spend all his energy whaling away at the door, and perhaps he could get rid of one, but there was no way that he would get to the second one before Bridge came back and found a more permanent way of incapacitating him.

 

Sherlock sighed, defeated, and flicked the lighter on anyways. If nothing else, he could get a better sense of what the room held.

 

It seemed at a glance like an innocuous laboratory, but there was a sinister air to the place that unnerved him greatly. The mahogany table in the center of the room shone where the weak light bounced off it, taking up the majority of the place. A few scattered beakers sat atop a scratched, worn counter, some dangerously close to a deep, stainless steel sink. Cabinets lined the walls, all gleaming in the light; some were padlocked shut. Apparently Bridge had a thing for padlocks. Sherlock wondered if they each had their own keys—they looked identical, but that would be a ridiculously careless move. Most unnerving to Sherlock was a pile in the corner that seemed to contain ropes and chains; they only increased his sense that his presence here was something that Bridge had planned for, and that his stay would be far from enjoyable, to say the least. Sherlock shuddered and flicked off the light. He did not want to see any more of this place.

 

It felt like an age that he sat in the darkness, and yet when he finally heard footsteps on the stairs, he felt his heart beat faster in something that felt like terror, or so he thought. Sherlock could not recall ever feeling terror before. Unease, perhaps, or apprehension, but before today, he had never had a reason to truly fear something. He could have gone his entire life without the experience.

 

He heard the click of the lower door’s padlock, and a creak as it swung open. Light flooded the room, nearly blinding him, and Bridge closed the door, locking it behind him. He walked to one of the cabinets and tossed the key into it, and then made his way slowly, almost menacingly over to Sherlock’s cage. “Now, then,” he said, a tremor of excitement running through his voice, “Where shall we begin?”

 

 


	5. Queries and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gleans some more information about his situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, so much for this being up within a few days. I'm really sorry. I am currently working two jobs, one of which is very part time, but the other is a 40 hour per week office job. It's left me quite drained, and I'm having trouble getting up the energy to work on this--Sherlock is a pretty difficult character for me to write. I hope to put up the next chapter soon, but I will make no promises for the time being.

“What are you going to do with me?” Sherlock asked, his voice surprisingly steady. “You can’t keep me here forever.”

 

“Can’t I?” Bridge asked, amused. He grinned down at Sherlock, clasping and unclasping his hands with what seemed to be nervous excitement. “You have no way of contacting anyone. You have no friends, no connections in London who might come looking for you. You have not phoned a member of your family in months, and when you do it’s always reluctant. The few acquaintances you have kept in touch with will not be surprised when you simply stop contacting them. You’re a lonely man, Mr. Holmes, and that only makes you more perfect for my research.”

 

“And what exactly is your research?” Sherlock asked, craning his neck up to meet Bridge’s eyes. There was no hint of compassion in the man’s eyes; they were filled with what seemed to be borderline sadistic glee. Sherlock would have preferred clinical analysis, for the man to study him as an experiment alone, but the amount of joy in the man’s eyes suggested that he knew exactly what he was doing—he knew full well that Sherlock was a person, not something to be used as a subject, and that was the thing that excited him. Suddenly, Sherlock regretted his pastime of learning to read people. He wished that he had never started, that he could look into the man’s eyes and not see the way he looked at him.

 

The look radiated pure evil.

 

“Oh come now, if I told you it would throw off the results for the entire experiment!” The doctor laughed, shaking his head and reaching into his pocket. “You’re a clever boy, Sherlock. You should understand that sort of thing.” He bent down and unlocked the padlock, pulling open the cage door.

 

Sherlock considered making a run for it, but no, that was a terrible idea. That the man had left the door key in the cabinet while keeping the key to the cage in his pocket suggested that he did, indeed, have separate keys for each padlock; even knowing where one was kept, he would never make it out all the doors in time. Instead, he inched towards the back of the cage with as much dignity as he could muster, even knowing that it was a futile attempt. Bridge had only to reach in and grab him—

 

He was expecting the doctor to reach in and pull him out of the cage. What he was not expecting was for the man to seize him by the throat, clenching his hand in a death grip. Sherlock spluttered as he was dragged out of the cage, clawing at the doctor’s hand. Bridge shoved him to the tile ground and planted a foot on his throat, applying just enough pressure to make his threat clear. Sherlock stilled immediately. “There now, do you really think you can hide from me in the cage? I thought you were smarter than that, Sherlock.” The man rose, wobbling slightly, his foot still on Sherlock’s throat. There were three possibilities; he would keep his balance and nothing would happen, he would lose his balance and his foot would slip off Sherlock’s neck—or he would lose his balance, fall forward, and crush Sherlock’s windpipe. Sherlock elected to keep as still as possible to try to prevent the last of the options. Bridge smiled cruelly, looking down at him with that steady gaze. “There, now. That’s better, isn’t it?” He withdrew his foot from Sherlock’s throat and took a step backwards, his eyes never leaving his victim.

 

Sherlock sat up carefully, and when Bridge made no move to force him down again, pushed himself to his feet. “I get it. You’re not above using force,” he said, working to disguise the tremor in his voice. Damn this whole fear business! It was impeding his ability to think straight! “So do you intend to kill me?”

 

“Kill you?” Bridge looked shocked at the idea. “And destroy the most perfect specimen I have ever come across? No, of course not. You’re of no use dead. I simply want your cooperation! If you don’t give it to me, you can’t expect me to take it lying down, now can you?”

 

_Yes, I can,_ Sherlock thought. It was what decent human beings did, after all. Sherlock may not have been what one would call a people person, but he knew enough to know that forcing cooperation was the epitome of unethical—not that this man would care about that, it seemed. “All right,” he said, scrambling for words to buy some time. “I will do what you say, if you promise to quit the forcible methods.”

 

“You’re hardly in a position to bargain, Sherlock.” Doctor Bridge took a step forward, reaching out and grabbing the collar of his jacket. “No one will come looking for you. Even if you can find every key to every lock in this place, you will never be able to get out.” He grinned, that sadistic light flitting about his eyes again. “You are at my mercy, Sherlock. I would suggest you remember that, and don’t try to bargain with me when you’ve got no chips on the table.”

 

“Then you do mean to hurt me.” Sherlock refused to dwell on the meaning of the words, simply pushing the syllables out of his mouth. Granted, he had never been one to complain terribly much about pain, but there was a difference between a sprained foot from running in the street and torture at the hands of a madman.

 

“Only if I need to, be it for research or to ensure your good behavior.” Bridge smiled—what was with the man and his smiles at inappropriate moments?—and took another few steps forward, until his face was only inches from Sherlock’s own. They were nearly the same height; Sherlock was not used to having to look down only a fraction of an inch to meet someone else’s gaze. He did not care for it, and turned his head away. Bridge took the opportunity to push him around and rip off his jacket, balling it up and throwing it off to the side. “Ah-ah-ah,” he chastised as Sherlock automatically lunged after it, seizing him around the shoulders and holding him back. “You’ll get that back when I am certain that you don’t have anything threatening in those pockets.”

 

“I have change, cigarettes, and a lighter, that’s all,” Sherlock snapped, shoving the other man off him. “And frankly, right now, I could use a smoke.” He took a step forward, only to be yanked back by the collar of his shirt.

 

“You’ll just have to quit that little habit cold turkey, I’m afraid. The smell is ghastly, if you must know. If you were anyone else, I would not have put up with you smoking in my house to begin with, and considering your time as a guest is over, I won’t put up with it anymore,” Bridge hissed. He shoved Sherlock back and stalked over to the coat, fumbling through the pockets and pulling things out. “Change—you won’t be needing that,” he mused, pocketing it. “Lighter—no. Too dangerous.” He pocketed the lighter as well. “As for these,” he said, pulling out the pack of cigarettes. “Well, let’s neither of us die from lung cancer, shall we?” He tossed the half-empty pack of cigarettes to the ground and stomped on them, grinding his foot into the ground, kicking the flattened pack away when he was satisfied.

 

Sherlock just watched, knowing that it was useless to try to stop the other man. So, even the simple comforts of his old possessions were to be denied to him. He could not help but take a step back as Bridge advanced back towards him, and felt the edge of the cage press against the back of his thigh.

 

“No shirt pockets—good,” the doctor said, looking him over critically. “Turn out your pants pockets, then.”

 

Reluctantly, Sherlock complied, pulling a crumpled receipt out of one pocket and the keys to his flat out of the other, both of which he placed into Bridge’s outstretched hand. “Turn around,” the doctor ordered impatiently. Sherlock complied, and Bridge reached a hand into each of his back pockets, coming up empty both times.

 

“Excellent,” Bridge said, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulder and spinning him around so that they were face to face again. “It goes without saying that you won’t be able to keep those,” he said, gesturing to Sherlock’s clothes, “but since I have not had time to get anything else suitable for you, they will have to do for the time being.”

 

“Why can I not keep my own clothes?” Sherlock asked, forcing himself to examine the doctor’s face again. Glee, anticipation—he could not read anything useful in the doctor’s expression.

 

Bridge chuckled, patting Sherlock’s cheek patronizingly. _Don’t touch me,_ Sherlock thought, forcing himself to keep from flinching. “Do you think I would let you keep any of your possessions? I am not going to perform a full body search on you, no, not today, but how am I to trust that you have nothing hidden away in the seams of your clothes? True, you don’t seem like the paranoid sort, but it never hurts to be careful.” The doctor shook his head, clearly amused. “But enough chatter. I think I will leave you the rest of the day to settle in, as it is. Come,” he ordered, taking hold of Sherlock’s wrist and giving it a sharp yank. Sherlock bit back a growl and followed the doctor—no point in resisting until he had some sort of advantage. He followed the doctor to a cracked wooden door situated a small bit to the side of the cage—Sherlock had not thought to look in that direction when he had originally examined the room, empty as it had seemed. “Go ahead and use the restroom now, while you can,” Bridge said jovially. “Just so you don’t waste your time, there is nothing in that room that could serve as a weapon or an escape route. Of course, if you want to waste your time, then do, by all means.” He opened the door and shoved Sherlock into the room, shutting it firmly behind him.

 

Sherlock glanced back at the door, and then turned to examine his surroundings. Tiny shower, pristine toilet, bare sink with the cupboard doors removed—nothing was under the sink save for spare toilet paper, suggesting that the doctor had removed anything that Sherlock could have gotten his hands onto. The mirror had been pried out of the wall, leaving an ugly expanse of cracked tile in its wake. Sherlock tugged experimentally on one of the tiles; it did not budge. He sighed—he had not expected that Bridge was lying about the room being devoid of anything useful, but it had been a hope. He supposed he should be happy that the man had thought to include a bathroom in his little kidnap set-up; the cage was hardly equipped with such amenities.

 

Sherlock took his time in the bathroom, hoping that Bridge would not come bursting in, demanding to know what was taking so long. He knew there was only so long he could stall, though; reluctantly, he pulled the door open and stepped back out into the room.

 

Bridge was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock glanced around the room and stepped quietly towards his coat, still lying on the floor next to his crushed pack of cigarettes. Glancing around, he palmed the pack and wrapped it in his coat, edging over towards the cage. There might be matches around somewhere; he’d figure out how to get rid of the smell if it came down to it. With a furtive glance over his shoulder, he pulled the pack out and stuffed all but two of the flattened cigarettes under the cage, within reach so that he could still get to them by slipping his fingers through the bars. He tossed his coat into the cage—maybe then Bridge would forget to take it, though it was a long shot—and replaced the crushed, now nearly empty pack of cigarettes where they had been. Sherlock glanced around again; no, Bridge was not in the room. Swiftly, he walked to the door and gave it an experimental tug. Padlocked from the outside—of course.

 

He may as well get a better sense of his surroundings before Bridge came back and locked him in the cage again. He moved quickly towards the cabinets and pulled open one of the unlocked ones. No keys—not that they would have done him any good. An assortment of science equipment rested on the shelves; beakers and graduated cylinders, Bunsen burners and writing implements. It looked like the man had raided a high school science classroom. Shaking his head, Sherlock moved to the next cabinet. A sewing kit and first aid kit sat on the upper shelf, while the lower shelf was stocked with ointments and bandages. Sherlock suppressed a shudder. He moved to the final unlocked cabinet and pulled it open.

 

Upon seeing the contents of the third cabinet, it was all Sherlock could do to keep his head on straight. Stocked with knives, clamps, and metal rods, it was the beginnings of a torture cabinet. He stared at the instruments, visibly shaking now; if this was an unlocked cabinet, he did not want to see what was in the locked ones. He did not think it was a coincidence that these items were kept in this basement; only someone with a purpose would keep these sorts of things in their laboratory. Sherlock could only guess at Bridge’s overall purpose, but he had a feeling that even if he never figured out the man’s final goal in his “research”, he would have the dubious pleasure of knowing the effects of the cabinet’s contents firsthand.

 

Or would he? Maybe he did not need to experience any of this. Suppose he took one of the knives and ran Bridge through the next time he came into the basement? Sherlock scanned the knives, trying to determine which one would be best for his purpose. There was little point in aiming to cause pain—no, it was most important that he go straight for the kill. He would have to be quick; he would only have one chance. He reached into the cabinet, running his fingers across cold metal. One chance.

 

And he could never take it back.

 

If he killed Bridge, there was no going back. Even if he simply incapacitated him, there was a good chance that the man would never fully recover. Sherlock was certain that he would feel no pity for the man himself, were he to inflict such a fate upon him, but the act? It was dreadfully permanent, and he did not have all the information. Better to keep it in mind as a possibility, as a last resort, and leave it for the time being. He glanced at the cage—no, he would not be able to hide a knife under it the way he had hidden his cigarettes; the bolts would not give enough to fit the handle under the floor. That was not an option, then. If he chose to go through with this in the end, he would have to wait for another opportunity. Sherlock closed his eyes and slammed the cabinet shut.

 

Immediately after he closed the cabinet, he heard the dreaded sound of footsteps on the stairs again.

 

 


	6. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is informed of his role as a lab rat.

It was perfect. It had been all too easy to get Sherlock into the basement, into the cage. He had been expecting his subject to put up more of a fight, but it seemed that the young man was as bright as he claimed to be—only a fool would fight when he was so clearly outclassed. The doctor hummed to himself as he clattered around the kitchen, tossing ingredients haphazardly onto a piece of bread—there was little point in performing an experiment if you did not keep your subject alive, after all. And this subject was simply delightful—in fact, he was the best that the doctor had ever had. Granted, he had never actually gone so far as to keep a subject in his house, but he had attempted similar experiments while allowing the participants to remain free. They never ended properly, and none of his subjects had been intelligent enough to stick around for the sake of curiosity. Somehow, he had assumed that luring a subject into captivity would be more difficult, but this had worked like a dream, really.

 

He would have to remember to not get complacent, though. Sherlock’s intelligence was a potential difficulty at least as much as it was a blessing. He would have to keep a tight leash on his subject, ensure that he did not come up with some way of escaping. He was fairly certain that there would be no escape attempts today, not while the shock was still settling in, but the further he got in conditioning his subject, the more likely it was that the other man would attempt to make a break for it.

 

It would be a difficult experiment, but it would be worth it in the end. He knew it. He would prove himself correct so conclusively, even his most determined doubters would find it impossible to disbelieve his findings.

 

The doctor checked his pocket to confirm that he had his multiple of keys, and ran his hand along the Taser that rested alongside them. He would be an idiot to go back into the basement unprepared; Sherlock was the sort to search the lab, and he would have found the knives by now. The doctor estimated that there was a fifty percent chance that the other man would attempt to threaten him, to bluff his way out. It would not do to go into that situation unprepared.

 

He picked up the sandwich and made his way jauntily to the stairs. He fumbled to unlock the doors one-handed, but it was a struggle well worth it. “Hello again,” he called, pushing the door open and stepping into the lab.

 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

Sherlock watched warily as Bridge practically waltzed into the room, a spring in his step. “I brought you dinner,” he said, handing Sherlock a plate, ham and lettuce spilling out from between two pieces of soft wheat bread. “May as well get you some water—go on, eat, it’s not poisoned.”

 

Cautiously, Sherlock took a bite out of the sandwich. He could hardly taste it; all his attention was focused on Bridge, who had begun to fill up a beaker with water from the sink. He did not like the idea of drinking out of a beaker; he had no idea what had been in that thing. He supposed it was simply the doctor making good on his earlier statement that he did not want Sherlock dead, but depending on what had been in that beaker before, he might prefer dehydration.

 

“Here you are,” the doctor said, walking back towards Sherlock and handing him the beaker. “Be sure you eat and drink everything. I can’t have my specimens getting sick on me; not right now, at least.”

 

How comforting. Sherlock forced himself to swallow the rest of the sandwich, and drained the beaker in a long gulp. Bridge never took his eyes off of him; he studied Sherlock the entire time, eyes roving from Sherlock’s face to his hands to his body, but never away from some part of his person.

           

“Good!” Bridge snatched the plate and beaker out of Sherlock’s hands, placing them back by the sink and leaning forward to study him more closely. “Good. Feel better now that you’ve eaten?”

 

_Not in the slightest,_ Sherlock wanted to say, but he refused to let the words leave his mouth. He settled for forcing himself to meet the doctor’s eyes, hoping that he would be able to read something of the doctor’s intentions there. There was nothing.

 

Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. Intentions—he knew the doctor’s intentions, and they were not good. Perhaps he should try to look at the doctor’s external characteristics, see if he could figure out what his external actions and behaviors were, and deduce his future actions from there. Intentions were not of as big a consequence as behavior, not when Sherlock was in such a vulnerable position. Yes, that was likely for the best—

 

The doctor interrupted Sherlock’s reverie, lunging forward without warning to seize Sherlock’s hair. He wrenched his head back, and Sherlock staggered to keep his balance, his gaze jolted from the doctor’s face, stretched back until he was staring directly at the shining ceiling tiles. “What makes you think you get to look at me like that?” Bridge asked, his mild tone at odds with his fiercely tight grip.

 

“Ah—like what?” Sherlock hissed, grabbing at Bridge’s hand. He growled in pain as the doctor dug his nails into Sherlock’s scalp, sending streaks of fiery pain through his entire head.

 

“As though you think you can read me,” Bridge answered, still calm, as though he and Sherlock were having one of their usual sessions upstairs. “Were you going to appeal to my humanity? Try to dredge up some empathy or pity, so that I’d let you go?”

 

“No,” Sherlock snarled, digging at his hands. “I’m not stupid enough to think you’d go for that, now let go of me!”

 

Bridge tightened his grip briefly, and then released Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock straightened, massaging his head lightly with the tips of his fingers, which did little to soothe the shooting pains in his scalp. His ring finger came away slightly bloody, though it was not enough to be a cause for concern, unless Bridge had had something particularly foul on his hands. Sherlock glanced at the man’s fingers—they appeared clean, but he would still like to disinfect the cut if given the opportunity.

 

“Let me give you a few general pieces of advice,” Bridge said, stepping forward until Sherlock could feel his breath on his face. He tried to take a step back, only for the doctor to grab his hair again, albeit less painfully this time. “Do not try to appeal to me. There is nothing you can say or do that will change my mind, my actions, or your situation. Do not bother trying to read me—it will get you nowhere. And finally—know your place.” He shifted his hand to the back of Sherlock’s head and pressed down vigorously. Sherlock dropped to a crouch to avoid the pressure on his neck. The doctor grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him forward so that he fell onto his knees, staring at the stark white tile.

 

“You’re not a person, Sherlock,” he said, his hand still idly pressing down on the back of Sherlock’s head. “Not anymore. You have a great purpose, but you’re still just an experiment. Think of yourself as my lab rat—a valuable lab rat, but a lab rat nonetheless. So don’t be forward with me, do you understand?”

 

Apparently, so much as looking at the man was considered forward. Sherlock gritted his teeth, his pride battling with his sense of self-preservation. Self-preservation won out in the end. “Yes,” he spat, still staring at the floor.

 

“Good,” Bridge said, petting Sherlock’s head with long, patronizing strokes. “You’re learning. Still, mistakes must not go unpunished.” He removed his hand from Sherlock’s head and slid it into his pocket.

 

Sherlock’s breath caught as the man pulled out a small, sleek black Taser. “Brought this beauty back from the United States during my last trip,” Bridge said, running a finger lovingly across the device. “Remarkable things, really. So easy to use, and so terribly effective.” He grabbed Sherlock’s chin, tilting his face upwards as he pressed the stun gun threateningly into the other man’s neck. “Do I need to demonstrate it?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said quickly, his breath hitching in his throat. He may have never used a Taser or seen one used, but he was familiar with their effects, at least in the abstract. He had no desire to feel the effects firsthand.

 

“Really?” The doctor chuckled grimly. “Because I think that you could use a little bit of a warning, figure out what will happen if you cross me.” He pulled the Taser away from Sherlock’s throat and took a few steps back.

 

Sherlock barely had time to take a breath before Bridge pressed the trigger, and the barbs of the Taser caught onto his shirt, holding fast as electricity shot through his body in an instant that seemed to last forever.

 

 


	7. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor continues to prepare Sherlock for his new life as a lab rat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling generous. Have a VERY speedy update!

It took Sherlock a moment to place his unease when he awoke. His surroundings were dark—darker than his bedroom, the window of which was located directly across from a nearby streetlight. He was stiff—he was not on his mattress, but rather on a cold metal floor of sorts. He felt wobbly, cramped, and slightly ill, and it took him a moment to place all the feelings before he remembered what had happened the day before.

 

Shakily, Sherlock sat up, wrapping his fingers blindly around the bars of the cage. He ran through the events of yesterday in his head. He had been kidnapped, searched, shocked with a Taser, and thrown in a cage, left to ponder his situation and sleep as best he could. He felt around the cage—Bridge had removed his jacket, and aside from that, nothing else had changed. His internal clock was a mess; he had no idea how long he had slept, what time it was, and if or when the doctor would come to visit him. Sherlock was not sure if he would prefer to see the man or not; on the one hand, he wished to never see the doctor again, but he would also rather not end his life in a few short days alone and bored in a cramped cage.

 

It seemed like several hours before he heard footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock sighed; well, he had not made up his mind yet which outcome he would prefer, and he had no control over that part of his situation in any case. He straightened, sitting cross-legged and closing his eyes, determined to at least appear unaffected by his situation.

 

He was glad that he had closed his eyes; the light flared on with stark intensity, nearly blinding him even from behind his closed lids. “Ah good, you’re awake!” Bridge sing-songed. He clomped his way over to the cage; Sherlock heard the padlocks rattle and click, and the cage door creaked open.

 

“Get out,” Bridge ordered, reaching into the cage and tapping Sherlock’s face. Sherlock opened his eyes; the doctor stood before him in clear disarray, shoes still on his feet, tattered coat only half-buttoned. Greyish cloth peeked out from a hole in the grungy cloth bag tucked under the man’s right arm. His eyes shone brightly, cheerfully. Sherlock decided that it was best to keep the doctor in this good mood; he bit back a sigh and crawled out of the cage, standing as soon as he had cleared the door.

 

“Welcome to your first full day as a participant!” The doctor nearly shouted, clasping his hands together in glee. “Right, well, there are still some preparations to be made. Get rid of those,” he said, gesturing at Sherlock’s clothes. “Can’t be too careful, and what a pity it would be to ruin such nice fabric.”

 

Sherlock frowned, weighing his options. “Very well. Give me the other clothes and I’ll go change,” he said finally, reaching out his hand for the bag.

 

The doctor jerked the bag away. “That defeats the purpose of ensuring that you have nothing hidden on your person,” he said, his tone darkening with his expression. “You will have these as soon as you’ve gotten rid of what you’re already wearing. Human modesty is unbecoming for a lab rat, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock flinched. He would hardly consider himself modest, but the idea of disrobing in front of this man was distasteful to the point that he almost refused. The memory of the burgeoning torture cabinet and last night’s experience with the Taser stopped him. He allowed himself a glare—a gesture so pitiful it could not even be counted as a victory—and unbuttoned his shirt, dropping it reluctantly at the doctor’s feet. The doctor made no move to hand him the shirt from the bag, and he took the cue to remove the rest of his clothing, down to his slightly frayed socks.

 

Sherlock shivered, disliking the unusual feeling of vulnerability. The doctor assessed him with a clinical gaze, picking up each article of clothing one by one, feeling through them and then tossing them aside seemingly arbitrarily. “Good. Here you are, then,” the man said, handing Sherlock a pair of frayed grey sweatpants and a tattered white T-shirt. Sherlock dressed quickly, ignoring the scratchy feeling of low-quality fabric against his skin. Better to wear ugly, low-quality clothing than be forced to deal with that surprisingly unnerving feeling of vulnerability that seemed to overtake him while disrobed and at a disadvantage.

 

“Better,” Bridge said approvingly, clasping and unclasping his hands. “Much better. Now, about this,” he said, reaching forward and delicately pulling one of Sherlock’s dark curls. “This will simply get in the way, don’t you think?”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock answered simply. What on earth was the man planning to do to his head, that his hair would get in the way? He wondered whether it would be better or worse to dwell on the subject; working himself up over possibilities was a useless exercise, but no doubt he would fare better in the long run if he was prepared to survive anything that the man threw at him.

 

“Better safe than sorry.” Bridge grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him towards the sink, Sherlock stumbling to keep up with the doctor’s suddenly brisk pace. Sherlock allowed the doctor to bow his neck, pushing his head under the faucet. The doctor turned the water on, haphazardly attempting to wet Sherlock’s scalp underneath his mass of hair, and pulled a cheap hand-held razor out of his pocket, humming to himself.

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth as the man practically sawed away at his hair. It was too thick for the job to go easily; his hair caught and clumped in the razor, which had to be cleaned out with nearly every swipe. Several times the doctor nicked his scalp; Sherlock supposed he should just be happy that at least this time, there was water to wash away anything that might get into the cuts on his head. His back cramped from holding the position for so long, and he inwardly cursed the doctor for not having the common sense to cut his hair shorter before attempting to shave his head.

 

 The doctor had hardly finished removing the hair from the top of Sherlock’s head—and frankly, that ordeal could have ended a good deal sooner, in Sherlock’s opinion—before he pulled Sherlock backwards, his head out of the sink, and spun him in a half circle, pushing his head back so that his face was under the stream of water. Unprepared, Sherlock inhaled a lungful of liquid. He gasped and thrashed out instinctively, struggling to breathe as water assaulted his face. The doctor’s response was to use one arm and his own hip to pin Sherlock’s arms to his sides, his other hand methodically running the razor down Sherlock’s face, removing the hints of stubble that had just barely started to poke through his skin. “All better,” he said when he had finished, turning off the faucet and releasing Sherlock’s arms.

 

Sherlock collapsed to the ground, hacking, fighting to suck air into his lungs. It was not working; he pounded his chest and forced himself to cough harder, expelling pitiful amounts of water from his lungs bit by bit. Finally, he found himself able to breathe without feeling as though he was about to drown. The air burned going into his lungs, but he supposed he should count himself lucky; the idiot doctor had not managed to kill him by accident, and from his actions so far, it seemed that that was something that Sherlock would have to watch out for.

 

“Humans,” he wheezed, his voice breathy and crackling, “don’t breathe water. Something—” he cut off, overtaken by another fit of coughing, which splattered more water all over the floor. “Something to keep in mind for next time.”

 

“And yet here you are, alive and well,” the doctor said, smiling cruelly at him. “You did make quite a mess of my floor though. I’ll let it pass this time, but next time, there will be consequences for that sort of behavior.”

 

Sherlock shook his head, electing to focus on getting his breathing under control, rather than formulating an appropriate response. He supposed that it was the better decision anyways; no need to anger Bridge before the man learned basic things such as how to not inadvertently kill his subjects.

 

“All right,” Bridge said, after Sherlock had had a moment to recover. “Good. You’re learning to not talk back. Tell me, do you think that keeping me happy will keep you unharmed? That following my orders will keep you safe? Let me know what’s going on in that massive brain of yours, Mr. Holmes.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “You should know everything I have to say to that,” he rasped, shakily pushing himself off the floor. This man and his games—assuming they were games, which Sherlock could only hope. Surely there was not a human being on the planet stupid enough to think that Sherlock would give any answer to defy the man’s expectations—then again, maybe he would, just to keep the man on his toes.

 

Yes, perhaps that was the better option. Throw the man off track, and see what sort of consequences he would be forced to endure for his insolence.

 

“I think you think I can’t affect your actions,” Sherlock said, coughing as he attempted to draw in enough air to begin his next sentence. “You’re correct that I don’t think—” he stopped to cough before continuing “that I can keep myself safe by keeping you happy. However, you’ve said multiple times that you’d punish me for perceived insolence, so while I’m not keeping—” another coughing fit, much to his annoyance “myself safe, I am avoiding any extra pain you would inflict on me for behavior that does not fit your standards.” He could barely understand his own words by the end, breathy and forced as they were. Finished speaking, he lapsed into a coughing fit, focusing his energy on breathing whenever he had time between heaving convulsions.

 

Bridge watched him cough, his expression unreadable. That was not a good thing, Sherlock thought; then again, he had hardly expected that his little speech would have any sort of good outcome for him. “You think yourself astute, Mr. Holmes,” Bridge said finally, nudging Sherlock with his shod foot. “And maybe you’re right. However, being correct in your facts does not mean that it was the right answer.”

 

The doctor’s foot connected with the side of Sherlock’s head, and the world went black.

 

 


	8. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor waterboards Sherlock, but is interrupted by a call from his wife. Sherlock mulls over the implications of the conversation he overhears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: torture, in the form of waterboarding.

“Wakey wakey.”

 

Sherlock’s head pounded sharply, an unpleasantly distracting sensation that made it difficult for him to get a handle on his situation. Harsh light burned at his eyes behind tightly shut lids; he tried to cover his face with his hands, but for some reason his arms refused to move, and something—he was not sure what—dug sharply at his wrists with every attempt. Groaning, he turned his face in an attempt to bury it in his shoulder to block out the light. The movement sent a sharp spike of pain through his head, and he nearly cried out, the noise dying in his mouth and coming out his nose a whimper.

 

“Come on Sherlock, I know you can hear me.” The light pat to his cheek was agony. Sherlock twitched, and his arms seared again with pain. “Why don’t you open your eyes and acknowledge me when I speak to you?”

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth furiously. Of course. The idiot doctor must have tied him down, and now he was taunting him—if he had any semblance of intelligence, he would know that knocking Sherlock unconscious would make him extra-sensitive to external stimulation. Rather than risk being touched again, Sherlock forced himself to open his eyes as far as they would go, glaring up at the doctor’s swimming visage through the slits that his eyes would allow.

 

From what he could make out of his position, he was in the middle of the room, strapped to that overbearing mahogany table. Sherlock glanced at his arm; he could not see his hand, which led him to assume that his hand must be strapped to the leg of the table. Vinyl, he thought, rotating his wrist as much as the ties would allow, which was not much. Not so strong that he could not break it on a good day, but it was wrapped in enough layers, and he was physically incapacitated enough that it held him fast in his current situation.

 

“Good.” Bridge’s voice was a high-pitched whine in Sherlock’s ear; he wished the other man would quit his tendency to monologue and talk to himself—it had gotten old the moment he had taken up that tendency, and Sherlock certainly had no patience for it now. “Do you know what insolence you’re being punished for?”

 

_Oh, go to hell,_ Sherlock thought, irritated. He pressed his lips together tightly and closed his eyes again, refusing to give the other man the satisfaction of a reaction. He was in an undesirable situation regardless; the last thing he felt the need to do was give the man the reaction he was looking for.

 

He heard the man above him growl, and suddenly his cheek was on fire as the man delivered a stinging slap to his face. Sherlock yelled, his eyes flying open, immediately watering and blurring from the painful brightness of the lights directly above his face. “More insolence,” Bridge said warningly, moving until he was within Sherlock’s field of vision. “You really aren’t making this any easier on yourself by clinging to pride, you know. Pride’s for human beings, not test subjects.”

 

“And what exactly are you planning to do with me like this?” Sherlock growled, tugging furiously at his bonds. The searing pain in his skull was beginning to ebb, allowing him to think more clearly, if nothing else.

 

Bridge simply gave him an almost pitying look, the expression marred by his clear anticipation. He did not speak, but simply laid a ragged bath towel over Sherlock’s face, completely obscuring his vision.

 

Sherlock only had a moment to wonder before he felt a trickle of water run through the bath towel and onto his face. Bemused, he waited, but there was nothing else, only that strange, slightly unpleasant sensation. Against his better judgment, he relaxed, thinking that if this was all the man planned to do, he could easily last until the doctor got bored and wandered off to do something else.

 

He was unprepared for the sudden deluge of water that splashed over his face. Shocked, Sherlock sputtered and gasped, struggling to suck in air and pulling a good deal of water into his lungs. He wheezed, eventually managing to suck in some oxygen, even as he coughed water up into the towel. Well, that was something unexpected, at least—he’d have rather not experienced it, though.

 

There was a long pause as the doctor walked away. Sherlock heard the grate of metal on metal, and the squeak of the sink taps, but it took a moment too long before he heard the sound of water gushing out. The noise was misplaced, anyways; it sounded as though the water was hitting the floor, rather than the bottom of the sink, and the sound of water seemed to follow the doctor’s footsteps as he moved closer and closer, back to the table.

 

Sherlock could have sworn his blood froze as he realized what the doctor intended to do. “Don’t,” he pleaded, his voice muffled by the wet towel that sagged into his open mouth. “Don’t! I can’t—”

 

He inhaled another lungful of water as the doctor trained the hose—it had to be a hose—on his face once more. Speaking was useless; Sherlock was certain that he was going to drown as he struggled to breathe, taking in gasp after gasp of water as he fought for air. His vision darkened and blurred as he fought for breath; it seemed like an age before the doctor gave him even a brief reprieve, and he had barely managed to suck in even a few gulps of air before the hose was trained on his face again. Sherlock thrashed, the vinyl bonds cutting into his hands, the towel heavy against his face. He was going to die here if this kept up; how unfortunate that the idiot doctor did not seem to know how to waterboard someone without actually drowning them.

 

Sherlock lost track of the number of times that the hose was pulled away only to return with vigor; it took all his mental capacity to try to remember to not breathe when the hose was trained on his face, to only suck in air when it had been pulled away. Even then, he inhaled lungful after lungful of water from the saturated towel over his face. He coughed and sputtered, turning his head to vomit up as much of the water as he could force out of his system. Dimly, he heard a loud beeping noise from what seemed to be very far away, and the hose clattered to the ground.

 

“Yes?” Bridge said. Sherlock fought for air, not even bothering to question to who the other man was speaking. “What—now? Sweetheart, I’m busy.” He sighed, and Sherlock felt the man rip the towel away from his face. He breathed as quietly as he could, trying to limit his coughs. “I’m out in town—no, no you idiot, I’m on the other side of town!” Sherlock weakly craned his head; the doctor was speaking into a mobile phone. Interesting—he went about often enough to have one of those, then. Sherlock wondered if there was any way that he would be able to get his hands on it. “You’re right. I’m sorry—you’re not an idiot. No—no, stop it, you know I didn’t mean it.” The doctor scowled and shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “All right, I’ll pay them a visit. Can’t we give them an extension? You of all people are big on that, I thought.” The doctor huffed in annoyance, listening to the person on the other end. It sounded like a woman, from what Sherlock could make out; likely late middle age to early old age, probably approximately as old as Bridge himself. “All right. This does mean I’ll be home late. Yes, I know. I love you too. Goodbye.” Bridge ended the call and pocketed the phone, turning his attention back to Sherlock with a regretful shake of the head. “Absolutely love it when the wife calls in. So good for spoiling plans.” He patted Sherlock on the cheek, his hand coming away slick with water and vomit. “Oh lovely, you would have to get sick, wouldn’t you?” The doctor picked up the hose, still gushing water on the floor, and ran it over his hand. “Should have thought to put a drain in here. Well, business calls, I’ll have to leave you for a bit! Don’t go anywhere,” he added, walking over to the sink and turning off the water, before heading to the door, unlocking it, and leaving Sherlock still tied to the table, alone with his thoughts.

 

Sherlock’s first notion was to stabilize his breathing as best he could, and try to cough up the remaining water in his lungs. He vomited several more times, which he supposed was really better than the continued feeling of drowning; he was already lying in his own sick, after all. A little more would hardly kill him. Stabilized for the time being, he turned his thoughts to analyzing what he could from the half of the phone conversation he had overheard.

 

His captor was married. He did not live in this house, which suggested that his wife did not know about his illegal experiments. If she did not know about his little hobby, then it was likely that she did not know about the house; he would pay for it from another source of income, then. Perhaps he kept the bank accounts of his family wealth separate from the accounts he shared with his wife, or at least that she knew about; however, Sherlock did not know how he would keep his wife from finding out that her husband owned multiple properties. Perhaps they owned several houses, and the doctor controlled all of the goings on that came with their other properties. He had spoken of “business” and “giving an extension” which implied that he was off to deal with his primary source of income, of which his wife was in the know. The man was living a double life, which would require that he split his time between Sherlock and the duties that he had towards his family and his other business.

 

This was promising, then. There was a good chance that Sherlock would take away an inordinate amount of the doctor’s time. Perhaps the wife would get jealous or worried and investigate her husband’s absence. Or, perhaps, dealing with his wife and his experiment would split the doctor’s attention enough that Sherlock could get his hands on the keys or the cell phone and manage to work his way out of his situation.

 

Either way, the knowledge that he had come into made Sherlock’s situation seem a lot less grim, for the time being.


	9. Analysis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attempts to piece together what the doctor wants from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, life. Life is getting in the way of writing, and I apologize. I have this whole story outlined, but actually tacking it down properly is proving difficult. Well, hopefully this chapter is decent!

Loathe as Sherlock was to admit it, the doctor’s return came not a moment too soon. Wordlessly, Bridge untied Sherlock and pulled him off the table, shoving him, with a curt nod, in the direction of the bathroom. Sherlock took the time to take care of his human needs, and, determining that it was best to not ask permission, made use of the shower, rinsing the remains of vomit from his skin, running the water over his clothes and wringing them out as best he could. The feel of water at all made him feel slightly nauseous, and it was strange and unpleasant to feel the streams of liquid pounding directly onto his freshly shaved scalp, but it was preferable to the filthy, disagreeable feeling of caked vomit on his face.

Clean, if cold and soaked, Sherlock screwed up his pride and courage and stepped out of the bathroom with as much dignity as he could muster. Bridge had not left him alone this time; the man was busy hosing off the floor and table, wet wood and tile gleaming in the doctor’s wake. “You took your time,” Bridge said coldly, not bothering to face Sherlock. “I don’t seem to recall telling you that you could shower.”

“I’d rather not be covered in my own vomit,” Sherlock replied coolly, folding his arms over his chest, ignoring the feeling of his wet T-shirt rubbing unpleasantly against his skin. “So, what was your wife so insistent over?”

The doctor snorted. “Small talk doesn’t suit you,” he said, walking to the sink and turning off the water. “And I don’t remember telling you that you could ask questions, either. Speak when spoken to, like a good little experiment.”

Sherlock snorted in disdain, but refrained from replying. Bridge glared at him, but made no comment about his subject’s small display of rebellious behavior. He shoved the hose at Sherlock, who took it wordlessly. “Clean up your mess,” the doctor ordered, pulling out one of his keys and going to one of the locked cabinets. Sherlock’s heart stopped momentarily; wordlessly, he moved the hose back and forth, for all the good it would do—he was simply spreading more water on the floor, mixing it with the vomit.

He was relieved when the doctor pulled out only a bucket and several cloths, handing them to Sherlock. “Get rid of it,” he ordered, jerking his head at the mess. Sherlock hesitated—cleaning was an activity he loathed—and then, with a spiteful glare, he took the cloths and squatted, patting up water and vomit from the floor and squeezing the cloths out into the bucket. Bridge turned the water off and watched Sherlock as he worked, handing him a bottle of bleach when he had finished. Taking the hint, Sherlock took one of the clean cloths and wiped bleach on the floor, wrinkling his nose at the smell. His ears burned with humiliation—apparently torture wasn’t enough, no, he had to get rid of the aftereffects of his torment himself. Well, he supposed it was better than letting vomit fester and rot on the floor.

Finished, Sherlock tossed the cloth into the bucket with the others and glanced at Bridge, who still stared impassively at him. Bridge nodded and shoved the bucket away with his foot. “Good,” he said, grabbing Sherlock by his damp shirt and pulling him towards the corner pile of ropes and chains. “Which would you prefer?”

Sherlock’s breath hitched. He had figured that the doctor intended the chains and ropes for use on him, but this was too much today. “None of them,” he answered, bowing his head, hoping that the display of submission would placate the doctor, but inside he seethed. He was not some animal to be tied down, restrained as though incapable of understanding simple words and concepts! He knew that he was at a disadvantage—he did not need bonds to remind him of such!

The doctor shrugged and bent over, picking up a set of conjoined shackles. “Very well, then, I will pick for you,” he said, unlocking one of the cuffs and clamping it around Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock jerked back automatically, pulling free from the doctor as he backed away.

“I am not some animal in need of restraint,” he spat, tugging experimentally at the cuff, which held fast, as he had suspected it would. His eyes darted around the room—doors locked, as he had feared. He continued to back away, hoping to make it to the bathroom, or even the cage, any place where he could slam the door and lock himself in, display some sort of agency in this appalling situation.

Bridge lunged at him; Sherlock barely managed to dodge, running into the bathroom and slamming the door. It did not lock, but he leaned against the door, hoping that his weight would be sufficient to keep the doctor out. The man had a wife, a life outside this little experiment; he could not hold out forever before one of his obligations took his time. Sherlock, on the other hand, had nothing to lose by staying in the same place and holding his own.

The door slammed into his back. Sherlock gritted his teeth and held his place, his mind racing. No windows—curse the doctor for having had enough sense to keep him underground. “I’m going to count to ten.” The doctor’s voice was muffled by the door, but still intelligible, unfortunately enough. “If you do not open this door by the time I get to ten, you will be lucky if you still have the ability to stand when I’m done with you. One.”

He couldn’t be serious. Impeding Sherlock’s ability to walk—would that effect his experiment?

“Two.”

No, no it couldn’t. Whatever he wanted Sherlock for, it had to be something that kept him at least marginally whole and unharmed.

“Three.”

Then again, he had never outlined exactly what he planned to do with Sherlock. He was a psychologist—it was possible that he simply wanted to experiment on Sherlock’s mind, and he would not need his legs for that.

“Four.”

All the things that he had put Sherlock through had been physical thus far, but Sherlock could not deny that it seemed that they were all done for psychological effect.

“Five.”

The cage, the clothes, shaving his head—that was dehumanizing. So was cleaning up the floor after he had been forced to undergo waterboarding—a torture with a primarily psychological effect.

“Six.”

So whatever he wanted Sherlock for was psychological. In that case, it would not hurt the man’s case to harm him physically. This was no idle threat—he meant to make good on it, if Sherlock did not comply.

“Seven.”

Sherlock whirled around and pulled open the door, glaring at the doctor with hate in his eyes. “Your little experiment then—it does not require me to be physically whole and functioning,” he said, looking the doctor square in the eyes. “Whatever you’re doing, it is entirely focused on my mental state. Your physical torments are simply a means to get me to react psychologically. Either you’re attempting to force me into a total mental breakdown—and if that’s the case, you’ll be waiting a very long time—or you are trying to mold me into a particular state of mind to ensure that I’ll exhibit whatever mentality you were hoping to discover with your insipid little study. But you knew from the start that the study was just a sham and could never produce results—you were looking for specific characteristics to fit your mold.” Sherlock folded his hands together behind his back, the chain around his wrist clanking as he did so. “So, did you select me for this because I was already close in mentality to the result you hope for, or because I was far away from it?”

“You think you’re clever.” The doctor placed a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and shoved him to the floor. Sherlock allowed himself to be pushed down—no point in fighting back, this early in the game. “You really think that you can weasel and talk your way into understanding me. And maybe you can. It won’t help you. Even if you figure out what this experiment is about, it won’t change the end results.”

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Sherlock said, his face muffled, pressed against the floor. He allowed himself a little lurch of triumph—whether Bridge would admit it or not, he had gotten him here. If he could figure out the results that the doctor wished to uncover, he could mold his behavior to pretend that the doctor had succeeded in his experiment. It was almost too easy—he was only a few steps away from conclusively determining the doctor’s intentions. He could almost taste the victory, even trapped as he was, face planted on the floor in front of the madman.

Bridge hauled Sherlock to his feet and wrapped his grip tightly around Sherlock’s free wrist. Sherlock allowed himself to be manhandled over to the corner with the chains, gloating inwardly the entire time. He could outlast the doctor, and now he knew it. It was the first bright spot Sherlock had seen since his captivity had begun.

The doctor grabbed Sherlock’s chained wrist and pulled it over his head. He reached for the chains and threw them, trying several times before the chain wrapped around one of the pipes that ran about the walls. “Not very sturdy, using your plumbing as a hold for this sort of thing,” Sherlock remarked, allowing the doctor to secure the other cuff around his free wrist, effectively holding him with his hands above his head. He could still move, walk as far as the plumbing pipe wound, but sitting was out of the question, as was lowering his arms.

“You’re right. I should install some sort of hooks in the ceiling for times like this,” the doctor replied, his mild tone belied by the ill-concealed look of rage that washed across his face. “But this should do for now.” He gave the chains a yank, and then stepped back to scrutinize Sherlock’s position more carefully.

The blow was unexpected. Sherlock grunted as Bridge slammed a knee into his stomach, fists clenched with fury. Sherlock instinctively tried to double over, but could barely manage to lean before the chains caught and jerked at his wrists. Grimacing, Sherlock slumped, putting the majority of his weight on his wrists as he reminded himself to breathe deeply, letting the strain on his wrists distract him from the pain in his stomach.

“Sleep well, little subject.” The doctor turned on his heel and stalked towards the light switch.

“You’re leaving me like this?” Sherlock forced out. It was not what he had expected. A beating, perhaps, or questioning, or some form of torture that he did not want to fathom—that was what he had expected. Somehow, none of that seemed preferable to spending the night in this position—he supposed he should count himself lucky.

The doctor did not answer. He unlocked the door in silence and flicked the light, plunging the room into darkness once the door had closed.

Sherlock hung there, trying to sort out his mind. He forced himself to stand straight and remove some of the strain from his arms, which were starting to ache from supporting all his weight. Sleep was not going to be terribly comfortable tonight, if he could manage to sleep at all.

Was he at a disadvantage? Yes, Sherlock could not deny that he was. However, he was starting to develop a plan, a way that he could potentially work his way out of this situation. He would have to learn everything that he could about the doctor and what the man was planning; then, he could work out exactly what the doctor wanted from this experiment, and react accordingly. If the doctor was stupid, he would let Sherlock go once he had gotten the results he wanted. If not—well, if not, then Sherlock was likely to die anyways, and at least he could die having beaten the doctor in the only way that he could.

It was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless. Sherlock allowed himself to drift into a hazy half-sleep, simultaneously anticipating and dreading the doctor’s return.


End file.
